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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633800">Blessed are the Meek</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig'>Apfelessig</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caleb's a good man and deserves more attention, Character Study, Chronic Illness, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, and his palsy, very subtle nod to Caleb's pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:07:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Caleb Brewster muses on impulse control and places he'd rather be when Benjamin's platoon comes across a beggar man on the roads.</p><p>A little character reflection to pull some heartstrings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blessed are the Meek</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/gifts">AnnaBolena</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>dedicated to AnnaBolena, who writes really, really, really good Ben/Caleb fic. I'm doomed to forever write sincere/heartfelt stuff, so this is my thank you for giving me all the crack fic/incredible erotica during this time</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing is, Caleb Brewster can't be arsed with horses.</p><p>This has little to do with his ability to ride one. He, like every other male above toddler age, can feed, lead, groom, saddle and competently steer a horse with almost minimal fuss, depending on the brute in question. As a dragoon, he's even quite skilled with his horse, a beautiful bay, and has felled many a surprised—<i>briefly</i> surprised—lobster-back whose last image in this world was of a short feral-looking man, robed in oiled leather, descending from on mounted high to dispense death.</p><p>It's not that he can't ride them.</p><p>He just can't be <i>arsed</i> with them.</p><p>Give him a whaling boat any day of the week. A skipjack, a stubby row boat... he's been in a logboat or two, even those birch bark canoes, with a keel thin enough to poke through, leak-proof though they are. The ripple on the water is a more soothing rhythm than his horse when she decides it's time to trot, and Caleb has to reign her back to an orderly walk to stay in his row on the narrow trail. She's prone to bursts of energy like that, and he supposes he doesn't have to look far to explain the lack of discipline. He can almost blame his ride whenever he tends to break ranks and ride ahead to settle alongside Ben at the spear of the group.</p><p><i>My bay seems to have a thing for yours</i>, he wants to joke, but the major would probably laugh it off, or worse, give no response at all—just that smirk, a <i>hmph</i> in the upper chest, dismissive and indulgent alike. Caleb's not sure he can take one of those just now. So he gives a warning click of his tongue.</p><p><i>Stay in line, you big beast</i>, he thinks. <i>For both our sakes'</i>.</p><p>He steers his mind back to the water, a safer mental place to while away these long treks on horseback. He's due for another smuggling run in a few days. As much for his own benefit as to keep an eye on the privateering crews and their shifting power dynamic on the black market.</p><p><i>Where there's a war, there's money to be made</i>. Whoever said that must have had a cynical view of the human condition, indeed. In addition to being absolutely right.</p><p>"Platoon, <i>halt!</i>"</p><p>Another wave, as the stop in motion ripples along the group to its rear. Caleb dismounts with a hop, ambling quickly to catch up with Ben at the front. Though he harbours no regrets, he has to admit that after a lifetime of being either on the water or on a horse, his land walking has suffered. He's quiet as a mouse over the dried leaf fall—still, his life marks him when he encounters a hard trodden dirt road or cobblestone.</p><p>The man whose appearance prompted their stop puts even Caleb's bowleggedness to shame. Caleb would wager there isn't a straight bone in the man's body. He's curved as a wicker basket, and the misshapen rags he wears only add to the appearance. Ben is a tall man and has stooped down a little for his convenience, though Caleb can see the rag man straining to gain an extra half inch for the major's benefit, even though it visibly pains him. <i>Fair enough</i>, Caleb thinks. Golden boy Ben, who would give the shirt off his back to this stranger should he deem it mission critical, inspires that kind of generosity in people.</p><p>Caleb appears soundlessly and Ben acknowledges his presence even without having requested it (not that Caleb could be kept out of such affairs anyway, come hell or high water).</p><p>"...squad on the road, past the next fork. Passed me heading this way, not an hour ago. Can't say for certain where they were going..."</p><p>"A British patrol squad?" Ben asks, needing to be sure. They're in neutral territory, but only just. There shouldn't be any organized efforts from either side here. Even their own platoon is risking much to transport goods and intelligence back from a minor skirmish.</p><p>"My eyes are still good," the man grins, toothlessly. "Even if the rest of me ain't."</p><p>"What's this, then?" Caleb asks.</p><p>"Mr. Brookhaven here is a beggar," Ben explains. "With a keen memory and a willingness to help."</p><p>"Aye," Caleb says, peering the man over, a tad more suspiciously. "Just us, or anyone passing these roads?"</p><p>"Those redcoats are no friends of mine!" the beggar says, waving a crooked finger. "Turned my brother and his family out of their home after they wouldn't pay their taxes. Our father's home!" Spittle flies from his quaking chin, and there's an element to his vehemence that belies his lack of perfect motor control. Caleb lowers his chin, feels his eyes slide away.</p><p>"Have you seen them before? Do they patrol these ways often?" Ben, predictably, is all business.</p><p>"Can't much tell one squad from another," Brookhaven admits. "Though they were moving light. One 'orse for the officer, the rest was on foot. Not usual, but then," a rough brush across a beard that also aims to outclass Caleb's, "you get all sorts around here, these days."</p><p>"We should move," Caleb says. It's reliably a good tactic. For once, Ben doesn't argue.</p><p>"Aye, saddle up. We'll not linger here long. Thank you for your service, Mr. Brookhaven."</p><p>His hand, strenuously raised, waves off the gratitude. "I'll not ask for naught in return, unless you can spare a corner of bread for the afternoon."</p><p>A curt nod, "My lieutenant will see to it," and Ben's turned on his heel, leaving Caleb feeling unsually awkward. The beggar has sagged a good two inches, now that the six foot one godsend that is Major Benjamin Tallmadge has left his immediate field of vision to be replaced with a stouter lieutenant all too aware of their many similarities.</p><p>"I'll see what I can scrounge up for ya," Caleb says, ducking eye contact. His scrounging liberates two rations of bread, one of his own and one from a corporal who's been giving lip lately, a flask of Madeira, and a few shillings that Caleb supplements from his own privateering stash. He's just considering whether to add a blanket to the mix—he can steal one from the main army camp later—when he realizes his platoon's already en route. The beggar's eyes shine over Caleb's offerings, and the tremble in his lip is a kindly one.</p><p>"One who is gracious to a poor man lends to the Lord, and He will repay him for his good deed," the beggarman recites, and Caleb feels his heart squeeze painfully, like a fist around a token. He fights the urge to check behind him, that this exchange is not heard. And if his own voice shakes a little when he answers, there will be no one to mention it later.</p><p>"He who shuts his ear to the cry of the poor will also cry himself and not be answered," he says.</p><p>"Bless y'heart, son," Brookhaven says, and he places a hand on Caleb's shoulder like a benediction.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am not familiar with scripture and have included it here merely because the characters are canonically religious and it worked well. For reference, though:</p><p>Proverbs 19:17<br/>One who is gracious to a poor man lends to the Lord,<br/>And He will repay him for his good deed.</p><p>Proverbs 21:13<br/>He who shuts his ear to the cry of the poor<br/>Will also cry himself and not be answered.</p><p>also! there's a quarantine on, leave a comment. i need the social interaction &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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